Canadian Red

by R. W. Stone

  Lucas looked at himself in the barber’s mirror when Edwin was finished. He nodded. “Nice job, Edwin. I appreciate it.” He paid him and slapped his leg to arouse Red.

  “Remember what I told you,” Edwin warned. “Stay away from that place.”

  “Thanks again for the haircut … and the advice,” Lucas said as he exited the barbershop, the big malamute by his side.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Donovan felt that Jack Emerson was now within his grasp, but he knew he would have to prepare for their next encounter. After considering his options, Lucas decided to scout around the Emerson property in the morning, even though he’d be less likely seen in the dark. Experience had taught him that such a rash move would give Emerson far too great an advantage, especially since Emerson was on his home ground and he knew the land like the back of his hand. Still, this murderer was much too dangerous to take without Donovan’s having any knowledge of the man’s hideout and its environs.

  Every night before he went to sleep the last several weeks, the Mountie had done nothing but think about how he would behave and what he would do once they met. There would be none of the usual “give yourself up, and I’ll assure you a fair trial” protocol. This man had murdered Jamie in cold blood without so much as a second thought. As far as Lucas Donovan was concerned this bushwhacker deserved nothing less than death.

  He decided if he ran into his prey tomorrow morning, then he’d do what he had to do, and so much the better. But first, the Mountie’s desire tended more toward the mundane: eliminating the growling coming from the pit of his stomach.

  Donovan and Red studied the town, searching for a suitable café. They passed two places that served food, but Donovan could tell neither would allow Red to enter with him. Lucas noticed people sitting at tables inside a tent, the front of which was open. As the breeze picked up, Lucas caught the aroma of a stew, smelling rich and savory.

  “I think we found dinner, Red,” he said. A sign was nailed at a crooked angle to the tent frame.

  today’s special is the same as all other days.

  bowl of beef stew or bowl of chili con carne 50¢

  corn bread 5¢

  beer $1

  take it or leave

  When he approached the tent, several of the miners stopped eating to glance down at Red. One even whistled in admiration.

  “Anyone mind if the dog stays with me while I eat?” Lucas asked politely.

  Most of the men merely shook their heads, and one remarked it was a free country.

  Donovan sat at the end of the far table while Red curled up on the ground beside him. A burly man with muttonchop sideburns, covered neck to ankles in a food-spattered white apron, approached them.

  “You saw the sign. What’ll it be?” he rasped.

  “Two bowls of beef stew and one chili, and some cornbread,” Lucas told him.

  The man looked at him curiously. “Not tryin’ to cut back on my own business, but that seems like a lot to eat, even for a gent your size. These is healthy sized bowls they is, and I’m proud to say it.”

  Lucas smiled and shook his head. “It smells so good, I wish I could have a bowl of each. But that would probably be a mistake, knowing how much my stomach must’ve shrunk over the last couple of weeks. No, the two stews are for my dog, here. Just the chili and the cornbread for me.”

  The man looked down at the malamute. “Judging by his size, maybe two bowls won’t be enough?”

  “It’s a good place to start,” Lucas said.

  The man nodded. “As long as he sticks to the stew and don’t eat any of my customers, we’re fine. Anything to drink?”

  Lucas nodded. “A beer for me and, if you don’t mind, a bowl of water for Red here.”

  “Coming up,” the man said, and went to get the food.

  When the food was served, Lucas was glad he had chosen this place. The food was simple and flavorful. Red scarfed the food up in a matter of minutes. Donovan complimented the owner on the food.

  Picking up dishes on the other end of the long table, the man thanked him, and added: “Lived for a while in Texas and worked the chuck wagon on a drive or two. Down there, there are three things necessary to being a good cook.”

  Lucas interrupted him. “Let me guess … the coffee, stew, and chili.”

  The man laughed. “Got to be able to stand a spoon straight up in all three. Down in Texas, the chili don’t always have beans in it, but I find it adds a little bulk and some zest to the mix.”

  “Tasted good to me.” Lucas looked down as Red began licking the empty bowls again. “The stew was agreeable to my dog, which is pretty obvious.”

  “Mighty big animal you got there,” the man said. “Could put you in the poorhouse trying to keep a dog like that in victuals.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s the best sled dog north of the border,” Lucas bragged. “He’s pulled me out of many a tough fix.” Donovan flashed to an image of Red helping him pull Jamie’s body back up that gully.

  “Something wrong, mister?” the man asked.

  Lucas looked up into the man’s face, realized he had been lost in his thoughts, which wasn’t a good thing. “No, nothing … I’m fine. My mind just wandered off, is all.” He pulled coins from his pocket, telling the man to keep the change and motioned for Red to follow as he headed back to the hotel.

  The man stood there for a moment, his hands on his hips, watching the pair leave. He shrugged his shoulders as another customer arrived in the tent.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Donovan was up early. He had gone to the hotel’s kitchen the night before to inquire whether they could save any table scraps and leftovers and have them sent up in the morning for his dog. What arrived soon after he was up was more than ample for the dog and included beef and fish as well as a few vegetables. Lucas wasn’t that hungry, but he knew he would need to eat something since he didn’t know how long his scouting trip would take, so he ordered a couple of eggs and coffee.

  Before leaving the room, Lucas adjusted the money belt, strapped on his holster, and checked the Webley revolver he carried. Although the gun had never left his side, he followed one of several gun rules that had been set down to him and Jamie when they were young and just beginning to handle weapons. Always check a pistol and its rounds before carrying it. Every time. No matter what.

  Next, he collected the Sharps big-bore rifle and gave one last look around the room. Satisfied, he motioned for Red, then headed over to the livery stable.

  Once he had saddled Handsome Harry, Lucas rode out in a northwesterly direction.

  It had been a fitful night for him, tossing and turning as he relived the time he and Jamie had been tasked with putting an end to the crooked operator of a trading post.

  Hunters and trappers complained that the trader was shortchanging them on the goods they were bringing in to sell, using hollowed-out scales, but nobody could catch him in the act. It was Jamie’s idea to catch him by taking in twenty pounds of beaver skins and seeing what weight the trader came up with.

  As suspected, what Lucas brought in weighed almost four pounds less than it should have on the trader’s scale. When Lucas revealed himself to be a Mountie, the trading post operator pushed him backward and grabbed for a hidden gun. He reacted so quickly, Lucas was taken completely off guard.

  In the meantime, knowing no plan is foolproof, Jamie had quietly entered the post through the back door, even though he was supposed to stay with the sleds. He crept to the interior door leading to the storefront, which was partially ajar. He was able to see what was going on with the trader. He could see the sawed-off shotgun propped up against the counter behind the weighing station. He reacted almost at the same time the trapper did. Lucas fell backward, when the trader had grabbed for the shotgun, but, before he could raise it, Jamie literally dove over the counter from behind and tackled the man. The shotgun
discharged both barrels with a loud roar. Fortunately, the blast was directed up and away, and by the time the trader threw off Jamie and untangled himself, he found a Webley revolver pointed directly at his face.

  “I’m Constable Lucas Donovan, and I hereby arrest you for larceny, aggravated assault, and intent to kill a North-West Mounted Policeman.”

  The man looked up and spit: “Hell, he assaulted me!” He pointed at Jamie.

  “He may not follow instructions very well,” Lucas said, glancing up and giving his brother a quick grin, “but he’s a Mountie, too. And since you fought with him, let’s make that two counts of attacking a North-West Mounted Police.”

  While Jamie was handcuffing the trader, he told Lucas: “I may not follow instructions very well, Brother, but it’s a good thing for you I didn’t follow them this time.”

  It was the second time Jamie had saved him from certain death.

  He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that he had let Jamie down when he didn’t protect him from Emerson. That emptiness, that feeling, fueled his anger as he rode cautiously toward the Emerson property this morning.

  He had been riding for over an hour, when he slowed his horse. He had a fairly good idea of the location of the Emerson family mine since he had visited the land office and had a good look at the maps of the area. Lucas had a plan in mind, but he knew that making a plan, and actually putting the plan into action, can be two entirely different things.

  Once he knew he was closing in on the Emerson property, Lucas drew out the Sharps rifle. He proceeded slowly at a walk, constantly on the lookout for sign of an ambush. The malamute followed closely and quietly as he had been trained to do. After all their years together, the dog instinctively knew when they were on a hunt.

  * * * * *

  Jack Emerson had returned to the Emerson family’s property, but he wasn’t sitting back or relaxing. He was worked up and pacing like a caged animal. He detested the idea of working for a living, but he knew that soon he would have to leave the area in order to feed his cravings, which could only be satisfied by feeding off the terror of others. But more concerning at the moment was his sense that someone from across the border was after him. He could feel it. He couldn’t kill with someone on his trail. The only way out of this for him was to get together a small bankroll and get away from the north country, maybe head for Colorado.

  The family’s mine had been abandoned some years previously, but Emerson’s father had left a vein deep in the mine, untouched, in case of emergencies, and he had told Jack about it. Even if the vein didn’t yield much, Emerson thought it might be enough for him to move on to better hunting grounds.

  Emerson had always considered himself a cautious man, and he believed that if anyone did come looking for him, they would have to do so by day. The forested area around the place, once the sun set, was extremely dense and dark. There was only one small trail that led to the mine and the cabin, which twisted and turned so much that it would be nearly impossible to follow without light. Hell, even someone familiar with the trail would have a hard time following it through that dense brush without a torch or an oil lamp, which would be a dead giveaway to anyone in the cabin that someone was approaching.

  That was why Emerson only worked the vein at night, and only for short periods, not turning on his lamp until he was shielded deep inside the mine.

  By day, Emerson hid out in the dilapidated shack that had served as the family home for so many years. It was old and mouse-infested, but it did have two advantages. First, it had a roof that didn’t leak, and secondly, it had windows in all four sides so that no one could sneak up on him.

  He was currently seated on a wooden stool outside the front door of the split log shack, in the process of skinning a couple of rabbits and a squirrel he had snared earlier that morning. As always, his Remington rolling-block rifle was within easy reach.

  * * * * *

  As Donovan cautiously followed the trail approaching the mine, he stopped to ground tie Handsome Harry. Red spooked slightly when a covey of quail took flight off to the side of the trail, and he let out a small whine.

  “It’s all right, boy,” Donovan assured the dog, rubbing his head. “Just some birds.”

  * * * * *

  Ever alert to sounds, Emerson cocked his head and watched the birds fly over. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he had heard a dog yip, not the kind of sound a coyote or wolf would make, but a dog. He dropped the half-skinned jack rabbit, grabbed up his rifle, and ran off into the forest, toward the high ground behind the mine.

  * * * * *

  The Mountie finally came to the end of the trail where the woods opened into a large clearing that had a cabin off to one side, and a mining shaft off to the other. Donovan’s eyes scanned from left to right and back again, but the place looked deserted. There was no smoke coming out from the cabin’s leaning chimney, no smell of wood burning. Lucas could see no sign of movement off by the mine entrance, either.

  “Easy, Red. Not seeing anything doesn’t necessarily mean that there isn’t anything to see.” He was talking to himself as much as to the dog, for, while he didn’t see anything or anyone that would make him wary, he sensed a danger he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “Let’s take a look around, boy. Quiet,” he cautioned as he thought he heard a scuffing sound. He waited, but all was silent again except for the ordinary sounds one hears in the great outdoors.

  While Emerson was still climbing up to a better vantage point, Donovan searched the area carefully. The first thing he noticed was the number of footprints leading back and forth between the cabin and the entrance to the mine. As he bent down to get a closer look, he was thinking to himself: Someone’s been here … and not that long ago. Judging by the size of these boot prints, he’s a big man.

  By now Red had picked up the scent of the rabbit and squirrel abandoned near the cabin door and trotted over to explore.

  “All right, Red, we’ll search the cabin first,” he whispered. Lucas slung the Sharps rifle up under his arm into a ready position. As he approached the cabin door, he made sure to keep himself at an angle so he wouldn’t be seen from the front window, even though he knew that if anyone were inside, his malamute would have warned him by now.

  “What do you have there, boy?” he asked, watching as Red pawed at the dead animals. As he moved over, the half-skinned critter told him that not only had someone been here, but they had not left very long ago.

  Donovan nudged the cabin’s door with the barrel of his rifle, and, seeing no one inside its crude interior, he entered, taking notice of everything in the room.

  “He’s around here somewhere, Red, that’s for sure,” he said. “We’ll find him, or my name isn’t Donovan.”

  At the same time as Lucas was emerging from the cabin, Emerson made it to the top of the hill that overlooked the whole clearing. He quickly adjusted the telescopic sight on his Remington. When he caught sight of the intruder, Emerson was surprised to see a lone man walking around with a big dog. He moved, positioning himself behind a pile of rocks from which he could watch his stalker. As he started to bring up the rifle again, the clouds separated and for a moment the sunlight beamed right down the scope, temporarily blinding him.

  Down below at the cabin, Donovan was assessing the situation, the Sharps still cradled in his arms. Red was tossing the rabbit pelt up and down and jumping around when Lucas suddenly caught a reflection of light up on the hillside that overhung the mine entrance.

  Generally, the first rule of hunting—both of man and beast—is never to shoot unless you can clearly see what you are shooting at, but, in this case, Lucas didn’t have to see, he knew instantly what it was. And he believed he and his brother had been bushwhacked before by this very same man. Besides, no one else had any business being here. Donovan knew that flash of light had been the reflection from the polished rifle barrel or the sco
pe of Emerson’s gun. Clear shot or not, Donovan would take no chances. He flipped the Sharps up and fired instinctively, aiming for the spot he could envision in his mind’s eye. The Sharps was designed to take down a buffalo, and its bullet will destroy anything it hits.

  Donovan’s round smashed into the telescopic sight almost precisely at the same time Emerson was preparing to fire. Emerson was thrown back as the telescope literally exploded. Consequently, the bullet from his Remington was fired just a hair off of its intended target. It was enough to miss Lucas Donovan, but it was not entirely a miss.

  In an instant Donovan was reloading and firing another round up at a cluster of rocks he believed sheltered Emerson. As he glanced down, he saw Red lying on his side, and panting.

  Meanwhile, Emerson was recovering from the shock of the bullet’s impact on his rifle. His face was bleeding from a dozen small cuts caused by the flying fragments of glass and metal.

  Donovan dropped the Sharps, carefully scooping the dog up into his arms. Ignoring the danger, he ran as best he could, carrying the burden of his dog to his horse. Gasping for breath, he placed the big dog over the front of his saddle, and stood, breathing hard, before he mounted up.

  Turning the horse and pulling back on the reins before he gave the black the spurs, he shouted as loudly as he could: “Jack Emerson, my name is Lucas Donovan, and I know you for the back-shooting, murdering bushwhacker that you are. I’ll be on the street in the center of Bannack tomorrow at noon to face you … man to man! If you aren’t there, everyone will know you for the sniveling coward you are. And if you don’t show, I will come after you again and again until hell freezes over!”

  With that he sent his horse into a lope down the trail, back toward town with all the speed his horse could muster.

  * * * * *

  Emerson heard the words echoing through the hills and was stunned. Not only had someone outshot him, but it had been accomplished by someone he’d never heard of, a name he didn’t even recognize. Who in hell was this Lucas Donovan, anyway, and what the hell had put a burr under his saddle? The name Donovan held no significance to him whatsoever.